


If a Body Catch a Body Comin' Through the Rye

by lovegood0215



Category: The Catcher in the Rye - J. D. Salinger
Genre: Angst, One Shot, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 23:46:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16169228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovegood0215/pseuds/lovegood0215
Summary: Holden Caulfield, now an old man suffering from lung cancer, revisits his old life. Set in modern time. Warning: a lot of angst.





	If a Body Catch a Body Comin' Through the Rye

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks guys, I hope you enjoy this!

If you really want to hear a good story, you are at the wrong place. I, Holden Caulfield, is not a phony, unlike the rest of them. I would love to tell you about my life, but the only problem is that it’s not swell at all, especially for the past few years. Two year ago I lost Phoebe to cancer. Let me tell you, cancer is a real bastard. Last summer he came for me. He crept into my lungs silently, and one day, he declared that he was going to spread himself all over me. My doctor said that I’ll still be around for 1or 2 years. The stupid doctors always say these kind of things to make them seem like the savior of your life, as if they are the heroes who will rescue you.  
I’m on my way to the hospital to do this chemotherapy thing. Again. The taxi driver ignores me the whole way, I don’t know why. I try to chat with her, but boy, she is so sore about it: “Look old man, I have no idea where the freaking ducks go during the freaking winter, so shut the hell up!” I don’t get the young folks these days. I still remember the teenagers in my days. I heard Ackley became a cook and Stradlater made a lot of money. Phonies, all of them, boy I tell you.  
Because I am thinking about old Phoebe, all of a sudden, I don’t feel like going to the hospital anymore. I’m kind of missing her and Allie a bit, so I want to visit them for a while. I tell the driver to slow the taxi down near the cemetery. The driver shrugs and that kills me. I put my red hunting hat back on my head, put on my gloves, and slowly staggers out of the taxi.  
Christmas in New York is different from Christmas before. Everything seems more colorful, but the people are different. Sometimes I wish everything is plain like they used to be. I limp on the street, pulling my oxygen tank in my left hand while I hold my walking stick in my right hand. Some people give me looks when I walk past, but most people are on their lousy phones. I used to think that my old red hunting hat gave me protection against human beings, but now with everyone ignoring each other, I don’t know anymore.  
As I walk towards the cemetery, the streets become less lively. It sounds corny, but I think of it as time travelling. Gradually as I walk through the city, I return to the 2000s, then 80s, then 60s, then finally the 40s. It makes me feel happier, less depressed in a way, pretending to be someone I once was, I mean. The lane finally comes to an end. The gigantic gate with the words ‘Springville Cemetery’ looms before me. I push the gate open and pass through rows of graves with epitaphs of names. I follow the twists and turns in the labyrinth of the dead, and at last I am here. Two small gravestones, aligned closely together, lie before me. The one on the left says, ‘Allie Caulfield, March 20th 1935 – July 18th 1946’, and the one beside it has the words ‘Phoebe Caulfield, February 16th 1936 – December 20th 2015’ inscribed on it. The two gravestones are both simply adorned with no phony angels or whatever. I notice there are some flowers at the feet of the gravestones, I reckon they must be from some of old Phoebes’ friend. I hate the idea of putting flowers on graves, that’s why I never bring flowers to Allie and Phoebe. Who wants flowers when you’re dead anyway?  
I sort of stand in front the gravestones for a while, without speaking. But god, I remember them just as how they looked before. Allie wearing his damn baseball glove; Phoebe dancing with me, twirling in my arms; their laughter ringing faintly in my ear. Suddenly, I am damn near bawling, I have no clue why. I don't know how long I am there for, but this security person comes and politely asks me to leave, “Sir, the cemetery is closing in 5 minutes.” Since he doesn’t seem like such a phony, I leave as he asks me to. I take one last glance at the tombstones, I don’t know how I feel. I’m not depressed, nor lousy, but this warmth starts spreading from my heart and all over me, despite the freezing temperature. It’s not exactly like the pains I get when I'm sick and all, but I don’t know what it is.  
What annoys the hell out of me is I have nowhere to go after I leave the cemetery. I mean I could go back to my lousy dusty apartment, or I could go to the hospital, but I’m not in the mood for either. I decide just to stroll around New York in the end. I guess it won’t hurt much to walk for a bit. I pass the hospital, the museum, the school, the zoo, and a bunch of phony houses where people like Stradlater live. My mind wanders back to old Jane. Oh sweet old Jane. She married some phony named Jenkins. I haven’t given her a buzz in such a long time. I wonder if she still keeps her kings at the back row, and how many kids she has, and if she will recognize me if she sees me.  
After god knows how long, I find myself stop at the park. It’s getting dark now, but there are a couple of kids playing on the swing. My feet are getting tired, so I walk to nearest bench and sit down. I park my oxygen tank and my stick on either side of myself. When I look up, I see an abandoned carousel right in front of the bench. It was built in 1942, I remember clearly, because all the kids, including Allie and Phoebe, loved to go around it all the time. I swear that it was their favorite thing to do in the whole goddamn world. But now, I feel really blue. I mean, just look at that damn carousel! Vines are beginning to grow onto the platform; the horses are losing their original touch of color; and there is a big sign right in beside the carousel that says “DANGER, DO NOT ENTER”. No one even appreciates carousels now, all they do is play games on their lousy phones.  
I recall the event that happened over 70 years ago. It was pouring, and though all the adults ran into their cars and hid from the storm, I stayed in this very bench and watched Phoebe going around the carousel. The kids didn’t run from the rain. I figured it was because the rain didn’t bother them. They had a protective aura that shield them from the rain and many other evil things in the world, much like my red hunting hat that protects me.  
Anyway, I realize the kids that were playing on the swing are gone, I can hear the distant shouting of their parents. It is so quiet now. The only sounds I can hear are the owls and the frogs. I close my eyes, enjoying the soft music of nature. I feel better and calmer. Suddenly, I hear another faint voice, a little boy’s voice. He is singing a tune, a very old one from my earliest memories. It sounds so familiar and yet I can’t grasp it. The words are forming in my head as I concentrate harder. My lung may not be working, but my brain is for sure. A string snapped in my head as I realize what it is. I begin to hum that song with the voice, “If a body catch a body coming through the rye.” I repeat the lyrics again and again, with my young companion. I open my eyes to try to find where the boy is, and damn I can see him! He is transparent, like a ghost. But that doesn’t bother me at all. The thing that confuses me is I could not figure out what he is wearing. His outfit seems to be changing from t-shirt and shorts to an old fashioned sweater and trousers. He is always changing. He comes towards me, and extends his tiny hands, as if asking me to join him. I begin to grab my oxygen tank and my walking stick as I stand up, but I suddenly have a thought. I think about how wonderful it must feel to breathe clean air and walk with only my two feet! The idea is so overwhelming and pleasant, that I ignore what the doctors said to me: “don’t ever unplug the nasal cannula from your nose, or you will not be able to breathe!” I remove the phony thing from my nose, then I take them off from my ears, and I place them on the bench. You would expect me to choke or die, but I snort. I mock the doctors, for that I could still breathe. I told you they are a bunch of phony liars. I laugh as I’m finally breathing fresh air again.  
The little boy smiles at me, as if approving my decisions. The minute I grab his hand, I feel lighter, as if all the burdens and troubles of the world are gone. How amazing it is to be a kid again! The boy begins to run, dragging me behind him. I chuckle and tell him to slow down, for that I have no energy left to even walk, let alone run. Though he does not respond, he hears me and obeys me. I ask him where the hell we are headed, but he merely holds up his tiny finger and points. I look up to where his finger is pointed towards, and I gasp. We are teetering towards the carousel.  
I take no heed of the warning that stands in front of me. The boy steps on to the platform, and then turns to help me. Though I huff and puff, I am feeling swell. Really I am. He motions me to sit on the carousel, but I shake my head. My body cannot physically function. The boy scrunches his face up and looks at me disapprovingly. God this kid is stubborn, he kind of reminds me of Phoebe. How could I reject such an adorable face?  
I shake my head, and pat the boy’s head affectionately. Sometimes I feel like I became nicer as I grew older. But I am definitely not a phony. It takes me forever to mount the horse: I slide down the horse several times, collapsing onto the ground. When I finally succeed, I lean to the horse’s mane, panting hard. I notice my horse is a white stallion with a black star on his forehead. It’s funny: I always notice the things no one else notices, for example, this little boy. Seeing that I am on the horse, the child hops on to his own horse swiftly. Just now, I realize how tired I am all of a sudden, it is hard to breathe without my oxygen tank. My vision is dimmer; my lips are dry. I am so damn tired, so exhausted. I just want to sleep. I look up at the kid one last time, who turns his head and grins at me. I smile weakly back at him, whispering the words ‘thank you’. I don’t know if he hears it or not, because I can barely see him now, as my eyelids are too heavy. I let out a contented sigh, and the world disappears before me as I close my eyes.

 

Birds chirping, wind rushing, river flowing… I open my eyes. I find myself in the shade of a tree. I look down at myself, and the most extraordinary thing happens. The first thing I realize is I could breathe totally fine without the oxygen tank. Then I laugh out loud because my skin is not wrinkled anymore, but rather, tanned and smooth. I am wearing my black jacket with a t-shirt underneath and a pair of phony-looking trousers. I look and feel exactly like when I was young. I put my hand on my head, and find exactly what I am looking for – my red hunting hat. I rub my eyes and stand up. I let out a joyful cry as I survey my surroundings. I am at the place that I have dreamed of all my life, the place I would rather be than anywhere – the rye. I run around barefooted for a while on the rye, the feeling of grass under my feet. Then I realize something is terribly wrong: I am by myself. You see, in my imagination, there are children playing on the field, and I have to catch them if they fall off the cliff. But there are no children here, only a cliff looms behind the tree I woke up under. I walk to the cliff, and all I could see is the darkness. Dread floods into my body at once. What if all the kids have fallen into the abyss already? Even including my Phoebe and Allie? I lean on the tree, devastated. I want to jump off the cliff too.  
“Holden! Holden!” someone calls my name from the distance. I take a step forward from the tree and squint my eyes to see who is calling me. A girl about the age of 11, wearing a yellow dress, runs with the gentle wind. Behind her, a younger boy waving his hands desperately at me. I only need to take one look at them to know who they are. I scream back, my feet running crazily like hell, “Phoebe! Allie!” I am running faster than the wind. Time stops as we approach each other. We collide and they fall into my arms. I could feel tears streaming down my face as I hug and kiss them. I feel warmer for some reason. I cup my hands around their faces, but no words come out of me. Allie looks into my goddamn eyes and whispers gently, “Holden, I have been waiting for you here for so long.” I start to bawl like a baby. If you are here, you would understand me.  
After a long time of hugging, crying, and other phony stuff, Phoebe wipes her eyes and says with her bossy voice, “You know what we should do? We should have a race!” To where? I want to ask. But I shut my mouth up because I don’t want her to get all sore. We stand in a line, and I shout, “One, two three, set, GO!” All of us starts sprinting into the field.  
The sun is setting, dying the sky into this orange color. I could not think of anything except for how beautiful everything is – the sunset, Allie, Phoebe, and the rye around us. I am ageless. I am a teenager, an adult, and an old man all at once. Boy, I am so happy for some reason.  
We run into the rye.  
Laughter and songs fill my head.  
We run.  
Into the sunset.  
To home.


End file.
